


like the sun

by missingheadache



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Journalist Harry, Love at First Sight, M/M, Popstar Niall, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9227969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missingheadache/pseuds/missingheadache
Summary: He’s got coffee in a cup, held in hands that have the sleeves of his sweater drawn tight over tired knuckles. The zipper that starts at his chest is shut tight at a chin that trembles with astounded laughter, because this is the only interview he’ll have to sit through to promote his solo record, and he’s about to have it at a deserted golf club at dawn, with the only journalist he’d ever agree to do it with.Or; stitched-together words of how an anxious popstar falls in love with a journalist in one fateful day.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for manda, because we fight our corner together and every time i think she'll kick me out she brings me in closer and makes me smile instead.
> 
> please remember that this is a work of fiction.

There’s a gash in the sky – the horizon split open and bleeding purple to fight the receding darkness of night. It looks soft out there, like a gentle, well-worn argument between a long-since wedded couple. A play of night and morning as they’re figuring out their schedule, their shifts to look after the earth. Dawn is winning; expanding in pink and orange, all while Niall looks on.

There’s jazz drifting out of speakers behind him, enhancing the soft play of colours outside of the building. Dull pastels opening up over endless fields of grass and sand traps. No people in his line of sight; no people up at an hour like this that want to play a round of golf.

Niall’s clubs are in his car; his car key in his pocket; his pocket nothing but a snug fold in trousers that are brand new and tight around his calves. He wants to impress, with calves and nice trousers, even though his reputation of skinny jeans and t-shirts must have surpassed him by now.

The keys to the building are on the table – a threat of bad luck, his mum would say, but she’s not here and Niall is the last person in the world that would call himself unlucky despite broken mirrors and keys left behind on inviting surfaces. He’s here, now, alone but for the ground keepers, at a golf course in the outskirts of LA. Perks of being famous, of being rich, of being him.

He’s got coffee in a cup, held in hands that have the sleeves of his sweater drawn tight over tired knuckles. The zipper that starts at his chest is shut tight at a chin that trembles with astounded laughter, because this is the only interview he’ll have to sit through to promote his solo record, and he’s about to have it at a deserted golf club at dawn, with the only journalist he’d ever agree to do it with.

Harry Styles is kind. Humble. Has won awards for the way he writes soulfully about music, roots and dedication, and doesn’t seem to care the slightest bit about the reasons behind No Direction’s hiatus. Harry Styles has written a book about Louis Armstrong, followed the Rolling Stones on a North American tour, and uses his twitter for Sinatra lyrics in the middle of the night – offering hands to lonely insomniacs like Niall.

After five years worth of monotone interviews with the lads in the band, there was no other option for Niall. Nothing for him to do but send a hopeful email directly to _the_ Harry Styles whose words he admires so much, and ask him if a piece on a former-boyband-member-turned-solo-popstar was something that would hurt his image.

Harry called him an idiot. In Comic Sans, seemingly to underscore his point.

“Are you doing a roleplay, is that what the glasses are about?” he asks to follow that first exchange of emails up now that he’s shuffling into the restaurant, weeks later. He’s got the day’s first proper rays of California sunshine with him, peeking out from behind broad shoulders, and he shouldn’t be allowed to look that good. Shouldn’t be allowed to be so pretty inside out, in writing and on his feet, in torn up jeans and a t-shirt. A nicer mirror image of Niall’s usual attire. “Some kind of sexy teacher thing?”

Niall blinks behind the frames in question; blanks for a moment, then snorts to cover up the flattered reaction on his cheek. He feels tension flooding out with his next breath – warmth filling up the empty spaces inside of him as he shakes his head in amusement. He proceeds to shake Harry’s offered hand in greeting, then asks, “Why – is it doing it for you?”

He waggles his eyebrows, too. Feels ridiculous, but doesn’t mind.

“It’s doing _something_ ,” Harry says. He smiles, wide and inviting, and it seems familiar in all ways it shouldn’t – perhaps through the tone that runs through everything he writes and ends up here, in smiles and voice and posture as he takes a seat on the opposite side of the table. On a chair, in curious beginnings of sunshine.

Niall’s been here before, on fleeting escapes from hectic tours with the lads. He has spent hours among dark wood and comfortable furniture, and can guide his way around even without the kind-faced staff here to help him. The coffee maker had already been prepared for him, for his meeting, and the liquid’s still warm in the pot when he goes over to pour Harry a cup. It sends comfort through ceramic, not that he’s entirely sure he needs it. Thinks the enveloping tones of warmth on walls and far-away sofas is more of a luxury than a necessity when he gets another look at Harry, at the ease that radiates off of him, contagious.

There’s no paper. No laptop. No pen or recorder ticking away in a corner. Harry hasn’t brought anything to set up, to observe or jot down details with as Niall talks. It’s just him, here, with Niall. His smile and open eyes – the whirling forests within them that beat the outside view with their beauty. Niall wonders, briefly, how he’s supposed to untie his tongue.

“I watched X Factor the year you were on it,” Harry says. It makes things easier – reminds Niall of Comic Sans and the foundation already laid out for easy banter.

He says, with exaggerated drama in his tone, “You mean the year everything changed.”

Harry snorts, genuinely amused. “For the both of us it seems, yeah.”          

“You too?”

“It was the year I moved over here to study journalism,” Harry confirms. He dips a teaspoon in his cup – gets the liquid moving around a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shower of sugar. “All while you and your guys moved through the entire world.”

 _On a bus,_ Niall thinks, _trying to find everything I didn’t know I was looking for_.

He might have missed it, actually, despite the number of times the band circled the planet over the years. There’s something about the arch of Harry’s wrist as he stirs – the attention in Harry’s gaze that isn’t focused on the cup, or his hands, or anything but Niall, even when they’re silent.

Niall doesn’t think that he should be thinking this, admiring curves and attention like this, this early. He hasn’t slept much lately, his thoughts aren’t safe.

“We’ve come a long way from the playground,” his mouth says in an act of betrayal – thoughts and tongue in cahoots over the polished wood of the table. He only just refrains from slapping a less-than-delirious palm over his mouth. Adds, “ _No_. I’m not – don’t think I’m _that_ guy.”

Harry smirks at him – has an eyebrow raised in gleeful amusement, still _too damn handsome_. “What guy?”

“The,“ Niall flails – misses his cup of coffee narrowly as thoughts and limbs scatter around him. “The kind of self-obsessed asshole who quotes his own songs in interviews. _That_ guy.”

“What kind of guy are you, then?”

It’s a bit of a challenge, but mostly just interest shining in those fairytale forests – wildlife peeking out at the edge of the treeline, inviting. Niall swallows against it in a try to find his footing, his path through it. Has wood, fabrics and comfort lining his entire being.

“A simple one?” he offers, open for interpretations. “Constantly changing, I guess, especially with the changes I’ve gone through lately, away from the band, but… simple. Easy-going. Got some sort of small-town mentality clinging to the back of my neck.”

“Neck,” Harry hums in agreement, “chest, bones, feet. Everywhere you go – and you can go _far_. It’s a _big_ world.”

He understands. Speaks from the kind of experience Niall thrives to connect with.

“You’re from Cheshire, right?” he asks.

“Holmes Chapel,” Harry nods. The coffee’s still in his cup, now – the surface calm in the face of their conversation. Perhaps calmed _by_ it – by its familiar nature and the way it’s stilled Niall’s blood just the same. “Moving here was a bit of a shock. I felt too small in the city, too small in my shoes. But the music still sounded the same.”

Recognition. Familiarity. Understanding. The common ground is safe under their feet, and Niall’s bones feel secure by Harry’s presence, rather than the tones of warmth from their surroundings. There’s enough sunshine on the sky and in Harry’s voice – he could be anywhere in the world right now and still be safe and sound.

He _is_ here, though, with wooden panels and shiny table tops, so he leans over it and asks, “Do you ever miss the rain?”

Harry laughs. Bright. Tilts his head and looks fond enough that Niall’s heart tilts with him.

“Not in the beginning,” he shares. “But these days? Yes. In the fall, mostly. But the sun still finds ways to charm me.”

He looks over the table as though Niall plays a part in that magic trick – as though Niall is part of the renewed fascination. All Niall can think of is the way Harry looked with the sunbeams looking over his shoulder before, and how he looks now, with them brushing over his features like art. Appreciative. He gets it.

“I miss Guinness,” he says. A change of topic to shake the world back into place. “It doesn’t taste the same over here. Something about the environment, I reckon.”

“Probably the lack of rain,” Harry says. Jokes, bright with a beautiful smile. He’s evidently proud of the tying of threads he’s doing, the attachment of subjects into an interview that feels more like friends catching up than anything else. “Or just the fact that we’re of proper age, now. It’s not as exciting as when you had to drink the cider your sister bought for you on the swings in the park with your mates.”

Niall doesn’t know what his face does, but he can feel his expression shift; a furrow of brows and a twist of his mouth that surely can’t cover up the fondness he feels; the pleasure he’s experiencing.

He makes a noise of horror. Says, “At least my brother got me beer. Think he just wanted me to be okay with the divorce, at that point. Like that was the only way he knew how to help.”

 _Fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck – _too_ fond, _too_ pleasurable. Entirely too comfortable. The support is shrinking, now, in wood and furniture. Crinkling up like paper in the grip of dread, leaving paper cuts on his insides. This is what he gets for trusting his instincts. He’s said too much.

But Harry says, “My parents split up when I was little. About four? Couldn’t really drink that away, but it came later – this idea that I caused it. That they were happy when it was just them and my sister? There was a lot of angry poetry in my early teens.”

And colours brighten in playful sunshine, in sympathetic eyes and their knowing gaze. Mutual understanding manifested in hearts and fingertips wrapped around coffee cups that patiently go ignored. Comfort everywhere, brushing away that pit of dread inside of Niall as though it never appeared. He almost feels ashamed for doubting it, the conversation, the role Harry’s already claimed in his life, however fleeting it may be.

Niall acknowledges his cup with a thumb against the rim, then Harry’s maybe-fleeting-maybe-more-permanent presence with a curious prod of, “Did you go through the bad-grade-for-attention period?”

Harry snorts. “In all subjects but English. My teacher was a lovely lady – liked my angsty poetry quite a lot, actually. Said lonely souls make for good story tellers.”

He looks at Niall, then. Has looked the entire morning, really, unwaveringly, but the way he’s gazing over the table now makes Niall feel like he’s seen for the first time in years. Him, and the teenager inside of him that turned to music in the first place. _The music still sounded the same,_ Harry had said. It’s a common friend, now, that has taken its damn time introducing them to each other.

It’s also the same music that took him several laps around the world with his best mates, but that only now lets him realize that there’s been something in this world that he’s missed out on. Something that he, for some reason, feels like he should have had all along now that he has it _here_. The something that would have made No Direction have one – a direction.

He doesn’t have the guts to say that out loud, though. Too big. Something to squash down with a self-deprecating laugh and a hum over the rim of his cup that says, “She wasn’t wrong. You’ve got the awards to show for it. And I – well I haven’t, not anywhere near your level, but I – I’ve got some awards, too. Some songs.”

The coffee is cold when he drinks it. Harry’s gaze is not where it strokes his skin; the bridge of his nose; the purse of his lips that must be full of self-directed anxiety. Full of doubts that never sleep – that keep him from slumber.

“Lots of songs, actually, under your name,” Harry reminds him. His voice is warm, still. It’s probably always like that; warm and encompassing. Comforting like the room – the way it seems to tilt into them, into the gravitational pull between them. “You know your words, Niall. You know how to take care of them.”

Harry’s gaze, Harry’s voice, and now Niall’s cheeks – it’s all warm, and the sun has nothing to do with it. Niall’s chest is full of conversation and happiness. His bones are light to carry in his body. Harry’s smile is the only thing grounding him, and he’s so lost in the beauty of it that he hasn’t noticed how the world has woken up around them.

There’s a car pulling up outside of the window, staff coming in to prepare coffee for people that aren’t Niall; that aren’t about to lose themselves in swirls of mystical forest tales and that warm, raspy voice.

Niall wants to write lyrics about those eyes, and about how handsome Harry is under every position of the sun on the sky. He also wants a guitar in his hands, just to underscore the flutter of his heart with a cheerful melody every time Harry smiles at him.

In addition, he wants the moment to last longer. Wants the coffee to be as warm as Harry’s voice for the rest of the day, and for Harry to keep making him laugh over their cups until the week has passed, or possibly just forever.

He tries, with his heart in his throat, to extend it, the magic. Asks, “I was gonna – head out. Got my clubs in the car. You’re welcome to join me if you want to?”

Harry keeps smiling at him, effortlessly so, but his eyes go a bit wistful, a bit sad, a bit tinted with another emotion that Niall can’t identify. One he hasn’t seen before, but one he’ll be writing songs about.

“I’d love to. Any other day I would, but I’m not,” Harry says, waving dejected hands along the length of his body, hinting at his clothes. “And I really should get home and write everything down while it’s still fresh in my mind – make sure I do you justice.”

His gaze is slow in its rise and fall along Niall’s body at that – lingering at a mouth, a clavicle, hips and calves in tightly wrapped trousers. Niall believes that Harry _would love to_. Believes everything that’s come out of Harry’s mouth, and some beyond that.

“I’ll see you in a week, though,” Harry goes on, with something akin to relief in his tone. Something Niall will cling to in return. “First show of the tour, Niall. It’s a big one.”

It _is_ big. It’s _huge_. A mountain to climb all on his own, but it doesn’t quite feel like it with Harry’s words settling in the back of his mind – the reminder that Harry will be there for the journey. Somehow that’s the first bit of reassurance that actually soothes the nervous itch upon Niall’s skin since the tour dates were set.

*

Niall’s homesick the following evening. It’s a different itch than his anxiety – something settled deep beneath his skin that has him shuffling around his rented flat, wondering why the corners of it don’t make him feel like he belongs. He goes through bouts of this; missing and longing for people and habits that only really exist back home, but it hasn’t been this bad in a long time. Has been scratched up within him by the rasp of Harry’s voice; the familiarity of his accent that echoes in Niall’s mind and makes him ache for London. Wounds best soothed by tea in replacement for a spontaneous trip overseas.

His cupboards are empty – rented doors for rented spaces that he hasn’t filled up in weeks. The last tea’s been gone for just as long, not quite needed in the chaos of rehearsals and planning for the tour. There’s always tea in the studios, in the meetings, in the spaces for practice and exhaustion.

His mind snaps under another echo of Harry’s voice; withdrawal from too many things building up to a point where he’s suddenly got his phone in hand and desperation at his fingertips, typing out on a whim. Reaching out for a helping hand, begging for tea instead of Sinatra lyrics.

 _Get your shoes on_ , is Harry’s reply. _Putting the kettle on as I type._

It’s that simple. A burgeoning friendship. Old souls secretly entwined, making their bond known in new beginnings. Niall doesn’t even overthink his sweatpants as he goes, just bounds down stairs and street to a nearby address that suddenly holds more meaning than all of LA put together.

Harry has art in his veins, in his way of thinking. He also has it in his apartment, in typewriter and record player, in vintage posters and bookshelves full of vinyls and concert dvds to speak of his interests and passion. It’s his dedication, splayed out in titles and cared-for hardbacks.

The sofa is wide, inviting just like Harry, and just as comforting to ease into. Niall gets a cup in his hands and tries to blink awe out of his eyes as he watches Harry sink down beside him. He’d thought the warmth and focus had been overwhelming over the unsuspecting table top at the restaurant this morning, but it’s nothing compared to this. To having all of Harry wrapped around him, enclosed within four walls that are covered with personal details. It’s a mere fraction away from feeling like skin-on-skin contact.

“I was making my way through the last season of Bake Off, you see,” Harry indulges him. He’s fitting the heel of a foot to the cushion he’s sat on, settling the bottom of his own cup against his knee as he fumbles with a remote control. The telly magically wakens in front of them. “I hope you don’t mind.”

He might not have been doing that, actually. Might just have tuned into the desperate longing hidden in Niall’s text and translated the need for tea for what it really was. Homesickness, soothed by little things. British things. Homes away from home.

Niall shakes his head anyway, grateful for the gesture no matter the level of intention it holds.

“You know, I actually wanted to be a baker for a second,” Harry tells him a few minutes in. He’s smiling at his own memories, almost chiding his younger self with the headshake that goes with it. “I could only ever master the art of beer bread, though. And ate more cookies than I sold in the bakery.”

“ _Beer_ bread?” Niall splutters. “You can – there’s such a thing as _beer bread_?”

Harry turns his head in Niall’s direction, fond smile in place with a hint of satisfaction glimmering in them as though he finds it rewarding to shake Niall’s ground like this.

“I’ll make you some one day,” he promises. His tone is soft. Certain. “Not with Guinness, though.”

Niall swallows, but can’t help but grin widely at the reconnecting sidenote. “Well, as long as it’s not cheap cider I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

It makes Harry laugh. Makes colours brighten in the room; soft tones of honey and charcoal sparkling in the play of light from the telly. Niall’s cheeks suddenly feel as warm as his palms do, wrapped around the cup. They’re as proud as his heart is for making Harry react this way – pleased as though it’s a crowd full of critics he’s charming, and not just one person.

Harry, though – he’s not just a person. Is the first new person Niall has met in years that he doesn’t feel required to impress. He’s also the first person Niall’s met in years that he truly _wants_ to impress. He subsequently stubs his toe against the coffee table in an act of pure embarrassment when he’s getting up to take a closer look at Harry’s spread of bookshelves.

Harry laughs at him again. Soft and warm, like a flow of blankets seeping out in low chuckles. There’s care lining his tone and hands as he hums and reaches for Niall’s sock-clad foot. Attention guiding his fingers when Niall takes his seat again, and lets him rub soothing words and sensation against the throbbing until he’s got Niall sighing out contentment into the room.

The room’s not fazed. It watches on quietly as Niall makes a fool of himself, and he doesn’t mind so much. Doesn’t feel much like a failure with Harry’s hands on him like this, nurturing.

He doesn’t think about leaving as the minutes tick on and away, but he sips at his refill of tea and is aware of every sweep of eyelashes over his own, attentive gaze. The slow rise and fall of lids – the fragments of time that he’s missing out on where he relies on the warmth of Harry’s tone; the rasp of vowels that spark inspiration behind the very skin that deprives him as he blinks. His heart sings to the same melody when Harry soars from one topic to the next and lands without impact or hesitation at the bookshelves Niall never managed to reach. He has followed his words and crouched in front of a row of dvds, dragging an appreciative fingertip over one particular film.

“Sir Elton,” he hums, almost to himself. Hushed, like a secret that he opens up to Niall a moment later, inviting him in with another smile over his shoulder. “Secret gig in London, last month. I reckon we were about fifty people there.”

When he starts it up it’s just the single camera, poised on something high so that it reaches above the curious heads of that small crowd. It’s Elton John on a barely-there stage, bigger than life itself with his voice and presence. He looks at home among dimmed lights and inebriated merriment of a friendly crowd, singing songs he rarely dusts off for the public eye anymore.

*

Niall wakes up with a blanket over his waist and legs. His cup of tea carefully settled on the coffee table. Harry’s elbow over his feet, an anchor. The telly’s off, there’s a string of fairy lights on in the window, and the silence is gently disrupted by tapping on a keyboard – Harry’s writing sounding much like a melody in senses that are groggy with sleep.

“I,” Niall starts, awed by the comfort in his bones, the lightness in tendons and muscle. “I fell _asleep_.”

Harry doesn’t look over at him. He isn’t surprised. Must have sensed movement of happy toes against his skin. Infatuation waking up on his sofa, foreign but seemingly welcomed if Harry’s private little grin is anything to go by – the way it’s enhanced by the glow of his laptop.

“I’m telling Elton about that,” he announces. “He’ll love it.”

Niall gapes. Chokes. “You _wouldn’t._ ”

Harry simply keeps grinning, trading conspiring glances with the keyboard, and Niall flushes all the way down to his toes. He thinks that he feels Harry’s elbow twitch in reaction to the tsunami of heat against his skin, but it might just be an act of laughter. Amusement. Intimate teasing for entwined souls.

“You _would_ ,” Niall corrects himself. He admires the dimple in Harry’s cheek, and can feel his heart falling into it – into _all_ of Harry, infatuated beyond belief, but still welcome. Still here, anchored by that elbow, by the tea that’s once again been refilled in his rescued cup upon the table.

“Nerves related to the album release, and the upcoming tour,” Harry hums, still smiling prettily at the screen. The tapping of his fingers has not quite ceased yet: this is the sound of Niall falling in love. “Doubts about doing it all on your own for the first time, it’s – Elton would understand that.”

“ _You_ do,” Niall realizes, having heard his own anxiety echoed in Harry’s words – in Harry’s voice that sounds like the complete opposite of Niall’s anxieties. It’s full of warmth and care, and serves security looped inside that wonderful drawl. “ _You_ understand it – that I’ve not slept, not really. I haven’t been able to stop thinking – worrying, until –“

“—me?” Harry wonders. He’s looking, now, at Niall. Has tentative hope kindling in enchanting forest eyes and a heart on his tongue – emotion in his voice that does something to _Niall’s_ heart. The heart that is losing its footing inside his chest, falling over Harry. _Into_ him, into dimples and warmth and that elbow at Niall’s feet. “You found – me? You slept. Here. Or – it’s good tea. And Elton’s voice is –“

“—not the reason,” Niall assures. “It’s you. I _looked_ for you around the world for years, not that I was aware. But I knew when we met. And you – you’ve stopped writing.”

“About you,” Harry tells him. He sounds a bit breathless. His fingers are long, beautiful, hovering over words that must be desperate to be written – to be born in Harry’s mind and released into the world, making it better. “I’m writing about you. More than I should. It’ll be far more than an article, this. In-depth metaphors about how your eyelashes tremble when you sleep. It can be a book. A romance novel: my gaze and your eyelashes, shivering in the same air. And I – I want to kiss them. You. All of you. But it’s – I’m going too fast.”

“It’s not,” Niall tells him, forceful, almost trembling off the sofa with the sheer force of his voice, his determination. “You can kiss me. My eyelashes or nose. My lips, the most, if you want to. It’s _not_ too fast.”

Harry suddenly looks stunned – magically seduced by Niall’s incoherent declarations and clumsiness. It’s as though he doesn’t believe that he can have any of it, blind to happy toes and stirring fascination on his sofa.

There’s star-filled dust over the hopeful piece of furniture, though, clouding Niall’s mind and urging him into action before the sky between them clears and levels his mind again.

He shifts weight and hope and sinks forward and up on his knees, smoother than he’s ever been before. Hesitates for a moment, there, just to breathe and take Harry in – the tentative flicker of hope in eyes and parted lips. Then his hand is on Harry’s cheek, settling down over the sharp cut of that jawline to bring Harry closer, to meet him in the middle with lips and trembling heart.

He kisses softly, wary of stardust and emotions as well as the delicate feel of Harry’s skin under his palm. It’s a dream that he’s holding, touching, making come true with hope and thrumming belief. He savours the sensation of soft lips and trembling breath against his own skin during the moment he’s there, before he pulls back to say, “You want – you _did_ say – right?”

Harry nods – bumps their noses, lips and hearts together further as he repeats, “Right. Yes. _Yes_.”

Then they’re kissing again, with more urgency and hungrier noises that have Niall reaching out a hand to close and discard Harry’s laptop, clearing their way.

“Hadn’t saved that – about you,” Harry mouths against Niall’s lips.

There’s a smile in the kiss now – Harry regaining a bit of stability and teasing Niall through the motions of mutual infatuation.

Niall crawls even closer, pressing chest against chest, rubbing nose against nose. “You have me right here.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Like the Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10890432) by [nialleritdidnthappen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nialleritdidnthappen/pseuds/nialleritdidnthappen)




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